les rêves
by nyctigamous
Summary: The five times Casey and Dennis go to sleep, throughout the quiet, delicate growth of their relationship. Domestic setting.


She stands there, shadows on her sunken cheeks, relentless gaze not leaving his. The man's heart is thudding against his ribcage, violently, painfully, adrenaline coursing through his blood, dragging him steadfast out of his drowsy state.

She had slunk out of the room she usually stayed in whenever she slept over, a soft knock left by her knuckles on the door jerking him out of his light sleep. He'd thought something was wrong then, and he found out to be right soon after, boring his eyes into her tiny frame before him.

She looked even tinier than she usually did to him, and it felt like she was almost trying to make herself disappear. She was shaking, taken by tremors not unlike he'd seen on her frame before, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wide like a doe in the headlights.

From the moment he laid his eyes on her, he knew something was wrong.

And now she's standing before him, looking almost broken, clutching herself as she keeps her arms around her stomach - a protective stance, a silent plea in her eyes.

"Casey?" He starts slowly, almost carefully, and can't stop a frown when she gasps, as if pulled out of a trance.

"I had a dream." Her voice is weak, laced with remnants of bitter fear and pain, and something squeezes in him. "It was a very bad one. I can't.. I can't be alone be alone right now, Dennis." There's a 'please' that follows, as soft as a feather, but it gets choked out fiercely, as she forces down a sob that strained her voice when she spoke. Her eyes cast down, a frail hand over her lips, and he knows then, with a conviction, he can't refuse her.

His hands are shaking, heart beating almost hard enough to echo in his ears, but he steps aside, not able to look into her sad eyes. He's _unable_ to refuse her.

"Would you like someone else to take the light?" He asks her as she slowly walks past him, and she turns to look at him. Everyone else, he feels, in the back of his head, is asleep, but if she said yes, he'd do everything in his might to drag someone out.

He keeps her gaze, almost entranced with the depth of the soil in them, part of him hoping she'd say yes, get him out of this situation, let someone else help her.. _comfort_ her. Dennis doesn't do well with comforting. His purpose is to protect.

He swallows in the curt moment of silence, hoping that what goes down his throat drags the part of him that wants her to say no, as well.

"No." She finally tells him, as silent as when she was at the door, her breath shuddering. He feels the same shudder go down his spine.

There's a lump in his throat as he sits on the bed, reaching for the night lamp and turning it off. He stills for a moment, hears her settling into the bed, feels the mattress dip on her side.

Dennis brushes the back of his head, clenching his hands back into slack fists afterwards. Tries not to exhale too loud, tries to relieve the tension in his chest. There's a moment when he starts to regret this, but her doe eyes flash before his again, so sad and open and vulnerable, that he does nothing else but settle into the bed next to her.

He'd give himself some hope of getting sleep tonight, but he knows he won't be getting any. Not with her there.

And she's right there. So real and physical and warm, heat radiating off her, her gentle flowery scent lingering in the air like a warm embrace, and she's _right there_.

Dennis lay there, breathing difficult, fingers almost twitching, wondering, secretly, covetly, what her hand would feel like in his, curling around her small, soft fingers. He thinks whether it would calm her, help her feel safer, and feels like he'd give anything for that to be the case.

But his touch won't be welcome. He believes that, achingly, with a stutter in his heart. His purpose is to protect.

So he will stay here, close enough to have her in his sight, far enough to not make her uncomfortable, and he will protect her.

But then, she speaks, and her words make his resolution crumble. It comes as a soft whisper in the dark, pulling around him, resting on his ribcage.

"Dennis.. Can I please rest against you? I'm scared."

It pushes against him and terrifies him, how swiftly and violently his walls crumble at her voice. A small thought ghosts past him, that it's the first time she's so close to him, and he feels a soft, gentle ache in his chest, something almost recogniseable, close enough to distinguish.

It's yearning, he thinks, shame and guilt filling him.

He tries to shove that thought down, swallow it like a bitter pill, biting down the groan that almost escapes his throat. His heart takes a quicker pace, little thumps making him feel almost lost.

For a moment, he thinks, she almost sounds like Hedwig, scared and whimpering in the middle of the night, just like that.

He gives her a broken nod, voicing it after he realises she can't see him.

"Okay." He tells her, dreading the audible strain in his voice. There's a stutter in his chest, a squeeze, hoping she doesn't misread his tone, doesn't falter at the tension in his voice.

Again, with a silent, reverent yearning, he waits, aches for her, and he almost relaxes when he hears the sheets shuffling, her coming closer.

He forgets to breathe when he feels her warm fingers brush against the skin of his arm.

Forgets to as little as think when she gingerly presses herself to his side, desperate yet soft, curling her small hand into his shirt.

There's a part of him that wants nothing else than to uncurl her hand and take it in his, hold it close, right above his heart. Something melts inside, dripping and leaving marks, and there's a need in him. To hold it there, to the heart which could tell her that she's okay, that she's safe. Give her the comfort she needs.

His eyes flutter shut as he lets himself dive into the thought, into the _feeling_, so deep and urgent that it almost hurts. He resists the urge to wrap his arms around her small frame, feeling the desperate need to hold her close, inhale her beautiful scent. Make her forget her nightmares, assure her that he's here, that she's not alone.

But he doesn't. It's not his place, it's not his right. He counts his breaths along with hers as her shivering wanes, as she settles into him, relaxes her grip.

He lay there, afraid to move, reminding himself to breathe. Close to the girl, protecting her.

* * *

The clock on his cupboard shows past midnight, and Dennis is not surprised to see her before him again.

He'd heard soft whimpers echo through the walls between them, soft steps emanating and coming closer. Something stuttered in him at the thought that she was coming to his room, to him, but he knew better than to doubt that.

So he rose to his feet, turning the night lamp on, and opened his door to the sight of her fist ready to knock on it.

She stands there, in the same spot as she did that night almost a month ago, looking almost as she did then, trembling in her place, unspilled tears pooling in her glistening eyes.

For a split second, his eyes fall to her pursed lips, settling on them for just a curt moment, and thinks in a fleeting thought, how harshly they contrast the glimmering smile she'd given him just a few hours before.

He clears his throat before speaking, mutedly, not wanting to startle her, feeling sore and distraught.

"Bad dream?" It's a question with an obvious answer, and he knows he is stalling, gripping the handle of the door in an iron hold, anxiety flooding into him with a soft trickle. He wants to help, but, like last time, he's hesitant, unable to focus; unable to feel what is right from what is wrong.

He feels almost helpless, and it destroys him.

"Yeah." Her voice is hoarse and low, riddled with the passing terror that he can see still coursing through her trembling body, and he almost winces at it. "Do you think I could..?" She doesn't finish the question, casting her eyes down, grazing her lip with her teeth. She finally lowers her hand, fist balled in a white-knuckled grip.

There's a moment where Dennis wonders how the tears hadn't fallen from her eyes yet, worry and a familiar ache crushing against him, and he sighs.

"Alright." He tells her, stepping aside as she makes an almost, _almost_ haste step forward, brushing against him, making his breath hitch quietly.

He hovers his hand above her spine as he leads her to his bed, not daring to touch, tingling from her radiating heat. He tries to ignore it, but a familiar dread settles in him at the sensation.

When he tries to push that down, too, he finds it only growing thicker, twining around his core, setting his hands into a dull shake.

He tries - _tries_ \- to not let memories resurface, to not remember the way her pliable body felt against his side, the hot trail of breath she left on his skin as she slept. He tries to swallow down the yearning that came to him that night, the terrifying need to hold her. The thought that she needed him.

"Dennis?" Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks at her, almost apologetic for spacing out. He can feel his hands are still shaking, and he hopes she can't tell.

There's a strand of hair on her cheek, and his eyes fall to it, fingers almost twitching. He wills himself from the urge to brush against it, hold his palm against her rose-tinted cheek, hoping, aching, _wanting_ for her to accept the touch, knowing well he can't, that he _shouldn't._

He thinks, then, about the passing touches she gives him, on his hands, arms, shoulders, smiling sheepishly, blush on her neck, and wonders, with a fill of guilt, if it would be okay to return the same to her.

"I'm turning off the light." He says, more to himself than to her, casting a glance at her when turning away; the sight of her wide, vulnerable eyes, brimming with sheer and raw gratitude, burning into his memory.

The image stays before his eyes even when the light dies.

He can't breathe well. Not unlike the last time she was there, in his bed, impossibly close, almost.. _intimate_, in her proximity. His clock is digital, and he almost wishes it wasn't, wishes there were at least something filling this void of a silence, fickle with tension, with unresolved thoughts.

He falls into a maze, and he feels lost. He lay on his back with a girl in pain next to him - Casey, their Casey, the one they all swore to protect - and he thinks if this is okay. If this is enough. He holds his breath when his thoughts land on holding her, holding her close, keeping her safe, thinking back on the way he'd wanted to hold her hand against his heart, the same one that had threatened to burst out of him with every single of her touches. But he can't, he can't possibly-

And then he hears it, a crack through the thick shell. Snuffling, a faint, stifled sob, the crumpling of the sheets between her fingers, the slow drag of hair as she pushes her face into the pillow.

And it hurts him. Suffocates him, holds him in paralysed fear, every little whimper crashing into him like a vicious wave into a cliff, completely contrasted by the softness of her, the fragility, threatening to ruin them both.

He almost loses his mind to panic, gripping the sheets beneath his hands in vice-like fists, a whirlwind pushing past all his thoughts, a typhoon of her pain. He can't let her be like this, can't just let her go through this alone. Not like this. Not with him.

He's supposed to _protect her_.

Dennis forces his grip open, forces his breathing to still, his shivering to halt. He turns to her, to her muffled voice, to her trembling body.

He wishes he wouldn't think before he acts, wishes his thoughts were in a haze, but that's entirely not true. The thoughts, crafted in complete clearness of mind, in a precise calculation, burn a trail in him, a painful scorch, spiraling down into dread and anxiety.

Slow and steady, little piece at a time, heart breaking against his ribs at an impossible pace, he reaches his hand towards her. He brushes it against the smooth skin of her arm, counting in his head, waiting for her to startle back from the contact. A deep ache firing in his chest, gut knotting into a dark pit.

But he sighs as she leans into the short touch, eager, desperate, releasing a painful tension that has been sitting on his chest. He rests his hand there, then, palm burning at the unfamiliar touch. Moves it slightly, gingerly, up and down, not exactly sure what to do, knots threading and unthreading in him, waiting for her to tell him to stop, to back away.

He feels - hears - her head rising from the pillow, trying to look at him, faint sobs ebbing away. The man thinks about her eyes before he'd shut off the light, thinks of the look in her them, the softness, the lost strand on her cheek.

His breath shudders when he brings his palm there, to the same cheek, fumbling in the dark, clear, calculated thoughts flying out of him in a swift motion. He waits, waits for her to move his hand, feeling her fingertips ghost against his skin, but, for a moment, he thinks that her touch is almost reverent, and something breaks in him, the shell around his heart crumbling, letting in a gust of air that almost makes him dizzy.

He sinks into the feeling, letting it seep into him, through him, like water through paper, his arms slowly snaking around her form, pulling her closer. Despite the dizziness, the drunk feeling of _her_ against him, the bewildering, flowery scent in her hair, the intoxicating warmth of her body, he thinks, with a sting, almost expects her to shove back at him, refusing the only kind of comfort he can give to her.

But she does the opposite. The girl melts into him, curling her pliant fingers into his shirt, resting her hands above his heart, lays her head on his shoulder, pulling him even closer than he already held her. He feels his heart fill with water, the ice around it melting rapidly.

There's a soft _thank you_ that she whispers against his chest, and it echoes in his ears, closing in and backing away, threatening to make him lose himself in her, make him crumble, her soft body searing against him.

However, he feels relief at it. He holds her close, breathing in and out, trusting her, trusting that she needs him, the helplessness sitting heavy on his hands melting away.

His breathing evens as her shaking wanes, her body relaxing, pulling itself into sleep. Dennis tries not to fall into the scent of blooming flowers around him, not to drown in the pool of her radiating heat.

When he sleeps, however, he dreams of a meadow, and he smiles in his sleep.

* * *

The clock on his cupboard glares an angry past two a.m. at him, and Dennis resists the urge to turn it face down, turning his back to it, instead.

The room is covered in thick silence, save for his own breathing disturbing it, softly, methodically. No sheets shuffling, limbs moving, no second breathing of his own.

His mind, however, is far from being as silent.

He's been lying in bed without as much as an inkling for sleep for hours now, and his thoughts are close to _reeling._

The man is slowly, painfully succumbing to a horrifying realisation.

He can't sleep, because Casey isn't here.

It started slowly. Almost tentatively. The nights she stayed over, she'd sneak out of her room, a curt knock on his door. She said she felt safer, more comfortable, being at his side at night. He'd ignore the unrecognisable warmth snaking its way from his throat to his stomach at those words, but he couldn't ignore her gaze. Her silent plea. Her petite curling smile on one side of her mouth, sheepish, barely-noticeable. Sometimes he thought he could look at it all day.

Who was he to say no?

So he agreed, each and every time. Letting her slide under the covers, sink into her side of the mattress. Sharing his bed with her.

It started slowly, yet soon enough, she was sleeping at his side more often than not.

Dennis sighs, willing his eyes to fall shut. There's something missing in the air, something he can't exactly pinpoint, and it irks him more than not being able to sleep does.

The movement of his hand is almost involuntary, and surprising in its amount of longing. He splays his palm over her side of the bed, stilling just at the spot where she would be, a void where her warmth would be. He almost leans into it, restraining the urge to search for her there, a drop of shame filling him, tied with an aching desperation.

She wouldn't always touch him, wouldn't always curl at his side, grasping at him like a protective shield. But she'd always be close. Near, warm. Dennis isn't sure how to feel about it, but he found that it comforts him, too; the need of her seeping slowly into his mind, almost like poison, leaving marks behind itself, secret, well-traveled roads.

That way, he always knew she was safe. That she wasn't crying herself to sleep, alone, hurting, ignorant to those that would do everything to make those tears go away.

In solemn secret, he also knows, that her comforting presence ebbs his loneliness, too. But he bites that bullet down, bitter shards dragging down his throat. None of this is for him.

For her.

And there are times when she does cry. It always comes with a reluctant start, a slow and gentle rocking of her body. Then come the whimpers. Then the names. His name.

She cries in her dreams, asking for him, searching for him, small hands stretching and grasping at the sheets, breaking his unbreakable heart one little wail at a time. He wakes her, always, without fail, catching her trembling frame, holding it against him, holding _her _against him. He holds her until it wanes, until it passes out of her system, reminding himself that this is for her, reminding himself to ignore how her body feels against his, restraining his hands from moving, flushing out the heat that pools in him.

Fights painfully and fiercely against the image of her under him, willing, flushed..

Reminding himself she's not his to want.

Dennis rolls over onto his back, another exasperated sigh escaping him, cleaning out his lungs. His palm hasn't left Casey's place, and for a second it almost feels like the skin there is burning.

He can't stop worrying whether she's okay. She sleeps in his bed more often than not, and when she's not, he can't control his raging thoughts.

If she feels safe. If she _is_ safe. If she's okay, if she's not crying, or hurting, or afraid, if she's warm enough or comfortable enough, or if she's-

Dennis groans and raises a hand to rub his temples.

He's plainly going insane. There's nothing else that could explain his state. He was growing too attached to her, too _attracted_ to her, at a pace that was stilling insufferable horror into him.

She is not his to want.

She is under his protection.

Yet he is unable to do anything about it. Nothing, except an iron grip on his urges and feelings, except keeping an iron wall between him and what he wants, except drowning out the pictures of her beautiful eyes or the bow of her lips or her enticing sighs as she succumbs to sleep.

Another hour passes until he starts feeling tired. An hour of thoughts, of worries, of his always-dreaded yearning, instinctual searching for her rose-like smell.

When his consciousness starts melting into the void, becoming numb to the fact that he is alone, he swears he feels a small, delicate body pressing next to him, arms wrapping around him, like she sometimes would, and, like he always does, he doesn't push them away.

* * *

"Casey?" Dennis keeps his voice low and soft, as if afraid to disturb the present silence covering the walls.

He calls her name again when he steps into the room, searching for the girl that doesn't call back.

He sees her then, and a soft tugging threatens to overcome his lips, caused by the same feeling that presses air out of his lungs, coming out in a weak sigh. He doesn't see a reason to fight either of them.

The girl lay with her head resting on her hands, splayed across her books on the table. She looks as serene as she looks tired, and in a beat Dennis finds himself staring at her, unconsciously coming closer to her.

He almost winces at the realisation, but soon eases into it, reminding himself that it's okay. It's okay to look at her. He's allowed to.

Dennis brings a hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb against it, reveling in the milky softness of her skin, in the beauty of it. His hand almost starts into a shake, overcome with the wave of her, but he doesn't fight it. Dennis accepts it, like one would accept an act of nature.

He collects her in his arms easily and effortlessly, as if she were but a feather. He holds her close to him, feeling her warmth as it oozes into him, and feels hot in the nape of his neck as she nuzzles into him, squirming just a little. He was getting used to this.

It's not the first time he catches her dozed off on the desk while studying, on the couch, once, even, at the table in the kitchen. He worried at first, but couldn't not relent to her easy smile, the way she pushed his worries away by clinging to him, close, so close.

He almost thinks she does this on purpose, falling asleep in the wrong places, have him carry her to their bed. Not that he minds, though.

He carries the girl, drinking in the feeling of her pliant body feeling so small and familiar in his arms, and tenderness fills him, despite his inner, weak protest.

He still battles his demons when it comes to her, but they're not winning. Not with her here. Not with the way she smiles, looks at him, holds him, like he's the last person on Earth.

Casey protests meekly when he lays her down and tears away from her, heading to get ready for bed.

"I'll be right back, Casey." He whispers to her, brushing her hair as she settles into the bed.

He keeps glancing at her while he readies himself for bed, lingering gazes not filled with shame and guilt as they used to be. She looks serene. Beautiful. An indescribable feeling enters him at the thought that she is all his, and he can't even begin to fathom that fact.

He cradles her in his arms as soon as he gets into bed, embracing her in the gentlest way he possibly can. She deserves this, deserves to be treated with the utmost care that he can find in himself, the warmest feelings that there could ever be in him.

He kisses her forehead, once, in the same spot as he always does, and quickly falls into darkness to the gentle sound of her breathing.

* * *

Dennis tries to be as careful and as silent as possible as he slides under the covers, but sees the girl stir from her slumber nonetheless. There's a tinge of frustration with himself then, a speck of purple splashing on his ribs, but it melts away just as easily when he casts his eyes on her, and her drowsy smile.

"I didn't mean to wake you. You should sleep." He tells her, unable to fight the urge to whisper instead of speaking in his normal tone, subconsciously feeling as if it would disturb something holy, something that's already settled and slumbering in the air.

Casey hums as a response, rising slightly and reaching for his face, resting her palm on his cheekbone, thumb brushing against his skin. He feels warm in that spot, and the same warmth fills him. He's unable to tear his eyes from hers, unable, yet again, to tear himself from the feeling of cocooning safety she brings around his heart, the disbelief of this small woman being here, so close to him; unable to fight the foreign sparkle of joy that she'd smile just because _he'd_ entered the room.

There's moving and shuffling as she leans in closer, pressing her lips to his cheek, next to her palm. He feels it a greeting, and his hand closes around the skin of her arm. The palm of his hand is tingling, and he sinks into the ever-present need to touch her, keep his hands on her, just to remind himself that she is here, that she is _real_.

She's moving yet again, leaning over him, pressing her soft body against him, and he knows where she is reaching, but stills against the contact of her whole against him, dragging him violently into the feeling, breath hitching in his chest.

She kisses his other cheek, a familiar balance settling into him, easing him, his hand reaching from her arm to her fingers. When she leans back and looks at him, her lips form into a familiar curl, and he can tell by the glint in her eyes that she is about to tease him.

"Dennis, you never kiss my cheeks." Her little grin is enticing and he has to blink himself out of the trance. "It's not the same as kissing my forehead."

A huff of air escapes him with a sound, an almost chuckle, an almost sigh. There's the frustration again, tugging at him, and he thinks he should have known this, should have been more aware of it.

He'd kiss her on every inch of her body if he was just able to.

And he tries to remind himself, as often as he can, that he's _allowed_ to. That it's okay, that she wants this, needs this, just like her needs her.

So he lifts his free hand, tangling it in her hair, cradling the back of her head, eager to do just as she asks, and leans in to kiss her cheek. The contact is slow and delicate, just like her skin under his lips.

When he pulls back, he finds his cheek suddenly cold, the hand vacant from it now at her own, pointing at the opposite, not yet kissed cheek. Dennis smiles at the spark in her eyes, amused by her silent demand.

Yet when he leans in, she's as unpredictable as a storm, and she turns, sealing his lips in hers, hands now encircling around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, melding herself into him, and the urgency and the need in the way she kisses him takes every ounce of breath out of his lungs. He seeps into her, melting into her every touch, abiding by the way she tugs him lower, pushing her back down onto the bed.

When they break he finds himself hovering over her, taken completely and entirely by the dark hunger in her wide eyes. His hands are shaking at her arms, and there's a still in motion as he feels the push and pull, desire and control, both slinking in the back of his head, fighting each other. He wants every inch of her so badly, he's afraid he'll slip out of himself, slip out of control. He should stay in line.

"Dennis." Her voice, so far away, almost falls deaf on his ears, as his mind preoccupies itself with a furious fight, but when he hears her, he snaps entirely back to her. "Trust yourself." Her fingers brush against the frown on his forehead, the frown he only has for her; not of sadness, or anger, but of control, of focus, complete and utter focus on _her_, always seizing his body in an electric shock. "It's okay. It's okay, Dennis."

She smiles at him as a shudder locks itself into his body, barely visible to the naked eye, but shaking him to his very core. Her smile is radiant and he can't fight his heart opening a little at it, just a fracture at a time, at her every smile. It is because he knows, she sees him, _him_, not the urges, or the mistakes, or the filth, but _him_. She sees him for what he's there for, believes he can move mountains.

And for her, he would.

So he leans back into her, meeting her hungry lips, trusting not himself, but _her_, and searches for her with his hands, drifting through her skin, swimming in it, touching her arms, shoulders, pushing past the material of the shirt on her stomach. Her breath hitches in his ear as his fingers graze her scars, but he knows this sound, he knows it well, so he doesn't stop, feeling what she needs and wants.

His movements are careful and calculated, but there are explosions and blanks in his mind at her moans, at the way she shifts under him, drawing him closer, pushing her hips against his, at her soft gasps. He drinks in every inch of her under his touch, unable to stay in one place, unable to resist the thought of taking all of her in, lowering his lips to her neck, her exposed collarbone, twisting his tongue around her sensitive nipple, dizzy with her moans, the buckling of her hips, the needy hands around him, all over him, just like his are around her.

There are whispers in the way she clings to him, untold pleas in her glassy eyes, but he can hear her loud and clear. He can feel what she needs, an ache settling over him, mirroring the hunger, the depravity in her gaze, and he pulls away to cast away the barriers between them.

His breathing is hard and ragged as he takes in her form, searching her eyes, her face, looking if her hands are shaking or if they're set firm on the decision, a silent question which she answers to with a nod, and a smile so radiant it punches the air out of his lungs.

There's a split in the air as he sinks into her, a crackle of electricity, a tiny thunder between the miniscule gap of their bodies, and he kisses her as she moans, settling into a pace he knows she needs, giving into her, seeping into her very skin; his own need snaking around the edges of his control, cutting holes and letting it trickle out, letting him lose himself in her.

Her heat is enticing him, enchanting him, calling to him as he takes in her mewls and gasps and moans, giving in as she claws her nails at his back, and he feels entirely bewitched as he watches her flushed face, all for him, all _his_.

Her legs wrap around him, and he's still not close enough to her, he wants to bury himself alive between her thighs, to curl inside and live the rest of his days inside her, forever moving closer and closer because closer is never _close enough_.

She moans to him _"harder"_ in a husky, broken voice, and there's a wave of white that almost breaks against him, and he feels his control tipping a little, just enough to grasp her thighs tighter, dipping his fingers into her her pliable skin, enough to pull her closer; enough, for just a split second to think about breaking and _ravaging_ her, and the thought makes him want to sink his teeth into her ivory skin. He sinks into her, ruthless, drowning in her gasp.

He'll give her anything she wants.

Anything in the whole world.

He presses into her, his touch growing bolder, less controlled, unlaced of previous hesitancy, greedy fingers dragging over her stomach, her breasts, her neck; fingers halting slightly at the delicate line of it, so enticing in its fragility.

She arches her back into him then, and he lets his head dip, mouth searching her, kissing every inch of her he can reach, aching to devour her, aching to have her from start to finish.

Dennis can feel desperation rising in her, her fingers digging into his shoulders, dragging her nails over his back and arms, desperately searching for any purchase because the world has fallen out from under her and he's the only thing that will keep her afloat, keep her _alive_. He feels it, knows she thinks it, committing every sound she makes to his memory, already full of her sweet beckoning, of the home between her thighs, and he knows she trusts him not to let her fall, to remain firm and unyielding enough for the _both_ of them.

He feels a coil pressing against him and he _feels_ her, he feels her there with him at the edge, looking over at an abyss, looking each other in the eyes. And he's losing control, losing his grip, losing rhythm, eyes locked on her, the only place they need to be, the only place they will ever be.

It's not a trickle, not a wave, it's a tsunami, each breaking around the other, cracking under pressure, calling and beckoning to each other, shaking in unison as their hearts beat in one. They're one person for that moment, and that's all it matters.

He lay on her chest then, his own heart still singing against the birdcage of his ribs, the beating of hers loud in his ear. He feels vulnerable and open and it almost makes him uncomfortable, but she wipes that small fear away, holding him close to her, hand brushing against the back of his head, his forehead, nose, lips.

There's a silent reverence in her touch, and he can feel her, can feel the silent, unspoken _thank you_ in it, and it echoes through him; the gratitude just like the night she came to him, trembling and afraid.

He takes her hand in his, holds it close to his heart.

He knows she's not afraid anymore.

Because he'll always be there with her.


End file.
